


Surprise

by thewalrus_said



Series: The Smith and the King [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months he had spent like this, stealing a few hours a few nights a week in Porthos’ arms, talking themselves hoarse and then kissing until the sun came up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprise

“Don’t you have work to do, papers to sign or something?” Porthos asked, pulling away and winding his fingers into d’Artagnan’s hair.

“Don’t you have horseshoes to make?” d’Artagnan countered, pulling him back down into the grass.

Porthos grinned against d’Artagnan’s mouth and wrapped strong arms around his back. D’Artagnan lost track of the time, keeping track instead of the passing of Porthos’ mouth under his, the skin and clothes under his hands, the breaths sounding in his ears.

Three months he had spent like this, stealing a few hours a few nights a week in Porthos’ arms, talking themselves hoarse and then kissing until the sun came up. D’Artagnan always spent the next day in a fog of exhaustion, and he sometimes worried about Porthos working while similarly tired, but all it took was seeing the other man’s face light up again to wipe all doubts from his mind.

Everything about Porthos tended to wipe everything not about Porthos from d’Artagnan’s mind, in fact, so when the gentle cough came from behind them, it took him completely by surprise.

Porthos’ warmth pulled away, leaving d’Artagnan shivering. He blinked up at the shape in the doorway, frowning. “It can’t be time yet.”

“Three hours till dawn, as per our agreement,” Athos replied, unruffled, as if his king weren’t half-debauched on top of a blacksmith.

“Damn.” D’Artagnan let his head thump against Porthos’ shoulder. “I’d managed to forget.” He hauled himself to his feet, extending a hand to help Porthos up, just for the continued contact.

Athos’ expression didn’t change. “Take five more minutes, and then we really have to go.” He stepped away, leaving them in privacy once more.

“You managed to forget about Queen Constance?” Porthos asked teasingly, stepping forward to press a kiss to d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Am I really that distracting? She’s a beautiful woman.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “You could at least pretend to be jealous,” he muttered, leaning in.

“Why?” Porthos laughed. “Waste of emotion, jealousy is. And if I’ve got to spend three weeks sharing you, I’m going to be positive about it.”

D’Artagnan kissed him then, melting into him as much as he could before pulling away. “I’ve got to go,” he said, not taking his hands off Porthos’ arms. “Please know it is under the greatest duress.”

Porthos laughed again, a low rumble that came up through d’Artagnan’s feet and lodged around his heart, and pushed him away. “Go on, then. Get your beauty rest for the queen.” D’Artagnan gave him one last smile before turning to find Athos.

\------------

Queen Constance Bonacieux was _delightful_. Even operating under five hours’ sleep and Richelieu’s fussing, d’Artagnan was awake enough to see that. She shook d’Artagnan’s hand with a firm grip, calluses on her hands evidence of hard work with a sword or gun, or both. She’d interrupted her own attendant in the middle of listing all her titles, saying, “That’s quite enough, I think, or we’ll be here all day out-titling each other.” She caught d’Artagnan’s eye and grinned, and all his nerves fled.

A few hours later, when Athos had ushered everyone away and the two of them were taking lunch in d’Artagnan’s quarters, Constance put a hand on his arm and said, “I think I offended your minister earlier. I apologize for starting our association off on the wrong foot.”

“Not at all!” D’Artagnan grinned, already at east around her. “That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages. I didn’t know Richelieu’s eyes could pop out quite that far.”

“Oh good,” she said, leaning back and taking a sip of wine. “In that case, I’ll endeavor to be more crass when I can manage it.”

“Much appreciated.” D’Artagnan picked at the remains of his food, and then looked up at her again. “Can I ask a question that might sound insensitive?”

She smiled. “I was wondering when this would come up. Go ahead.”

“A piano?” D’Artagnan blurted out. “Seriously?”

Constance laughed, throwing her head back. “Oh, I do love bluntness. Yes, my late husband was crushed by a falling piano that a moving crew was lifting into our study through the window.”

“What was he doing under there?”

“I believe a small cat had darted through and he was attempting to scare it away when the ropes slipped. The cat is fine, he lives with me now.”

D’Artagnan held very still and studied her, but she didn’t seem bothered at all by the telling of it, so he said, “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

She smiled again. “It makes for great dinner stories, believe me.”

“I would offer condolences, but it doesn’t seem like they’d be appreciated.”

Constance nodded. “I married him for political reasons and he was an abusive shitface. I didn’t arrange to have him killed, whatever the newspapers speculate, but I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone.”

D’Artagnan nodded - that tallied with what he’d heard of the man, both before and after his demise. “Do you have any intentions of marrying again?”

“No,” she answered immediately, shaking her head. “I’m done with all that for a while, I think. I can’t imagine you’re too eager to marry a cold-hearted widower so early into your reign either.”

“I’m beginning to think we’d get on splendidly as a political power couple, actually. But you’re right, it’s a little too soon for me. So why did you suggest this little vacation, then? You know what people are already saying.” D’Artagnan drained the rest of his wine and focused all his attention on Constance.

“I wanted to meet you, first of all, and secondly I think the rumors will provide the perfect springboard for an announcement I want to make next month.”

“Do I get to know what announcement you’re thinking of?”

“Perhaps.” She grinned at him, wicked. “If you prove trustworthy.”

\------------

D’Artagnan had expected to spend the entire three weeks of Constance’s visit at her beck and call, and therefore not with Porthos. One week in, however, Constance caught him looking out the window during a meeting she was sitting in on, and collared him once they were done.

“There’s looking out a window out of boredom, and then there’s looking longingly out over the grounds like your favorite meal were waiting for you outside. Guess which one you were doing,” she muttered as they made their way down the stairs.

D’Artagnan felt his neck heat up. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious, but every time he looked out the damn window he remembered Porthos, and it was already starting to fray his nerves. “The window insulted my mother,” he said. Constance cocked her eyebrow at him. “It’s a very rude window!” he protested, realizing that she was buying none of it but unable to stop. “Thinks it can get away with all manner of nonsense just because the view’s so pretty.”

“How dare it,” Constance agreed, eyes twinkling. She looked up and down the corridor, and then stepped closer to him. “If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t,” she whispered. “But if you’ve got a lover somewhere out that window, don’t keep away on my account.” She grinned softly and kissed his cheek. “I’m off to the kitchens. Aramis promised me something delicious if I brought him three pieces of gossip he doesn’t already know, and I think I’ve finally got him. Care to join?”

“In a bit,” d’Artagnan said. “I have a few errands to run.” Once Constance was out of sight, he turned and ran for the nearest outside door.

Porthos wasn’t in the smithy. D’Artagnan spun around several time, remembered something, and dashed off towards the kitchen garden.

Sure enough, Porthos was stretched out in a patch of sunlight just beyond, napping on the exact spot they’d had their first picnic. D’Artagnan was debating whether it was worth waking him up, when Porthos grumbled, turned towards him, and opened his eyes. “Hello,” he said, edge of his mouth turning up, voice sleepy. “What brings you here?”

“You do.” D’Artagnan closed the distance between them and flopped down onto his side, facing Porthos. “Missed you. I’m skipping an Aramis Surprise right now, so be flattered.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Porthos murmured. D’Artagnan pushed his arm in mock outrage, and he smiled. “Is that all it was? Only I wasn’t expecting to see you for a while. Certainly not in the daylight.”

“I just missed you. Constance noticed, all but told me to come out here and find whoever it was I was mooning after, and I figured I’d better take the opportunity.”

“She’s a wise one,” Porthos said. D’Artagnan kissed him.

“God, I missed you,” d’Artagnan whispered, several minutes later. “It’s only been a week, this is ridiculous.”

“New love,” Porthos said. “It’s addicting.”

Something twinged in d’Artagnan’s chest. “You speak from experience?”

Porthos nodded. “I’ve had my share.” Something of d’Artagnan’s emotions must have shown on his face, because Porthos took his hand and went on, “Enough to know when it’s worth pursuing and when it’ll fizzle out.”

D’Artagnan nodded and sat up. “I should probably head back and make sure Aramis and Constance haven’t eloped.”

“Is that likely?” Porthos stood, offering his customary hand to d’Artagnan.

“Not especially, but they’re both of them charming enough that I could see it happening.” D’Artagnan let Porthos pull him to his feet, and then leaned forward, resting his head on Porthos’ shoulder. “Tell me I have nothing to be jealous of. I know I don’t, but tell me anyway.”

“Nothing and no one,” Porthos promised, tipping d’Artagnan’s head back to look at him. “I’ve eyes for no one but you.” He pressed a kiss to d’Artagnan’s forehead, and that was when Constance turned around the edge of the garden and made a soft noise of surprise.

D’Artagnan’s immediate instinct was to flee, but Porthos didn’t move and d’Artagnan didn’t want to abandon him. Instead, Porthos tipped a nod to the queen. “Your Highness.”

“Porthos, isn’t it?” Constance said. “Wonderful to see you again, especially here.”

D’Artagnan looked at her, and back at Porthos. “Seriously?” he asked. “Do you know everyone?”

“You remember I told you I stayed with my sister?” D’Artagnan nodded. “Her name’s Flea. She works for Her Highness.”

“Good god,” d’Artagnan muttered, still thrown off balance. “You’ve met everyone and their mothers before me. I’m so behind.”

“You’re farther ahead than anyone else.” Porthos smiled and released him. “Do you need him back now?” he asked, looking at Constance.

“Sadly, yes,” Constance replied. “Your father’s looking for you, d’Artagnan. Aramis told me I might find you here.”

“Smart man, that Aramis.” D’Artagnan gave Porthos’ hand a parting squeeze and followed Constance out through the garden.

Constance let him alone for less than a minute before asking, “So I’m guessing he’s the one you’ve been mooning after?”

“You guess right.” D’Artagnan didn’t even bother blushing. “How did you meet him?”

“Flea’s my minister of personal security.”

“Your bodyguard, in other words?”

Constance nodded. “When I’m at home, and she holds down the place when I’m out. When she mentioned her brother was in town I insisted on meeting him. How did you come to know him?”

“Hiding from Richelieu three months ago. He covered for me.”

“How gallant.” Constance caught his eye and winked.

\------------

The rest of Constance’s visit passed in a blur after that; d’Artagnan spent his days with her - mostly needling her to find out the plan she had alluded to - and one night of three with Porthos, the most he could get Athos to agree to.

The last week was devoted to press events, photographers and journalists coming one after another to interview them, together and separate. Even when they were together there was no time to talk - d’Artagnan tried, once, while getting his makeup touched up, and wound up with a mouth full of foundation. At least his choking amused Constance, to judge by her smirk.

All too soon they were at their last interview, and then it was over and they were at their last dinner together. Constance’s impression of one reporter, who evidently had not heard about the piano mishap and grilled her on what her husband must think of her visiting another man’s kingdom alone, had d’Artagnan crying into his mashed potatoes with laughter. “Poor man,” he said, gasping and pushing away the salty potatoes. “What did he do when you told him?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell him,” Constance answered, still laughing. “That interview airs next week by royal decree, I’m making popcorn.”

“You’re terrible.” D’Artagnan grinned. “I won’t miss it.” He twirled his fork between his fingers and added, “Will miss you, though.”

“Oh, darling,” Constance said, reaching over the table to take his hand. “I’ll call you during the commercial breaks. And you’re visiting me next, I want you to meet Flea.”

“Oh, I’d like that,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll bring Porthos, they can catch up.”

“Splendid.”

Constance left the next morning with as little fuss as she could manage - that is to say, the farewell parade arranged by Richelieu was cancelled and she negotiated him down to only one trumpeter and one banner. D’Artagnan held the door of her car for her, held the pose for a moment to appease the photographers, then shut it and waved as the car pulled away.

As the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared from view, Athos stepped close to d’Artagnan’s shoulder and whispered, “Look to your right.” D’Artagnan turned and saw Aramis half-out of the kitchen window, waving a white dishrag and weeping ostentatiously. D’Artagnan snorted, and saw Athos crack a smile out of the corner of his eye. When he looked directly at the bodyguard, however, his face was stone. D’Artagnan grinned wider and turned back towards the castle.

It was another five days before d’Artagnan discovered what the announcement Constance had alluded to was. He was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for Aramis in exchange for a romantic picnic dinner with Porthos the next night, and Aramis had the news on. A story about a woman seeking sanctuary in a local church for herself and her young child ended just as d’Artagnan finished chopping the onions; he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and when he blinked them open again, Constance was on the screen, the anchorwoman’s voice speaking over the image.

“Shhh,” he hissed, flapping his hand at Aramis. Aramis, who hadn’t been speaking, frowned at him and turned to the television. “I think this is it.”

“This is what, my king?” Aramis asked, putting his own knife down.

“Her mysterious announcement. I think she’s giving it now.”

The voiceover finally ended, and Constance’s words faded in. “...want to clarify the rumors that I know have been flying ever since I announced the visit. I have no intentions of marrying King Charles - nor, indeed, of marrying anyone, for quite some time. Possibly ever.”

With her last words, the reporters gathered around her podium erupted into questions. She raised a quelling hand, and pointed at one in the middle of the throng. “Yes, you.”

“You took to marriage so willingly the first time, Queen Constance - why the change of heart?” came the question, pencil already poised over paper to record her response.

Constance thought for a moment, then said, “To be perfectly honest with you, my first marriage was a complete disaster that never should have taken place.” The crowd erupted again, but quieted when she continued speaking. “I rushed into a political marriage, thinking it was what I needed to cement my rule and gain legitimacy in the eyes of other nations. I was successful in that, I suppose, but it came at the price of five years of misery in my personal life. I will always put the safety of my country above everything else, but I would hope that my people will understand that I also must look to my own happiness. I cannot and will not subject myself to another marriage unless it is for love, not politics.”

“Are you worried about losing the support of your late husband’s nation with this statement?” a journalist yelled from the back.

“A little,” Constance admitted. “But again, all I can do is hope that his subjects will understand that I would not speak this way unless I felt it for the best. I don’t blame the country for the actions of the king, and I trust they will not hold my country responsible for its queen’s words.”

“Does King Charles share your views?” the first reporter asked, shouting it three times over the din until Constance raised a hand again.

“I haven’t discussed them with him,” she said. “I hope he does. In my view, the time for political marriage is over and done with, and the more monarchs who agree, the sooner we can be rid of it as an institution. At the same time, I can’t force my opinion on anyone, and I certainly won’t hold it against him if he disagrees. We have time for one more question,” she added. “Yes, you, in the front.”

“Is there someone special in your life, that’s prompted this announcement?”

“There is someone, yes, but I’d made this decision well before I met her. No, I won’t be telling you her name,” Constance practically shouted as the assembly exploded again. “That’s all I have time for. Thank you all for coming.” Constance fell back and let her PR team handle the throng - in a moment, she’d disappeared from the screen.

“Well, I’ll be,” Aramis breathed after a moment, and switched off the television. “I have to admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Did you know?” d’Artagnan asked, picking up his knife again and using it to push the onions towards Aramis. “About the mystery woman?”

“I intuited that there was someone, but she would never confirm.” Aramis was practically beaming with pride as he accepted the onions. “What a spectacular woman she is, Queen Constance.”

“Indeed.” D’Artagnan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He wiped his hands and pulled it out.

_Did you see it?_

_Watched it with Aramis_ , he wrote back. _Is it Flea, by any chance?_

_She’s on the phone to Porthos now. Doesn’t want him to hear it from anyone else, even you._

_Well done._

When no quick reply came, d’Artagnan slid his phone away and picked up the knife again. “What’s next?” Aramis rolled a bell pepper across the counter to him.

\------------

D’Artagnan had barely woken the next morning before Richelieu had him by the collar. “How on earth did you manage to arrange a press conference so quickly?” he asked, shoving the last of his breakfast in his mouth while Richelieu threw clothes at him.

“Never ask for my methods, sire. Now hurry and change, you’ve only got twenty minutes before they arrive and we need to prepare. Meet me downstairs in five minutes.” Richelieu swirled out of the room, cape billowing behind him even more impressively than usual.

Twenty-seven minutes later, d’Artagnan took his first question from the press. “Are you upset, sire, at Queen Constance’s announcement?”

“Not at all,” d’Artagnan said. “I think she’s quite right, to be honest. And if you’re asking if I’m heartbroken, I’m not. I’m proud to call her my friend.”

“Do you believe the rumors that she murdered her husband to be with her lover?” came a shout from the back.

“Don’t be absurd. That’s ridiculous and offensive. No more questions from you.” Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan saw Athos move and escort the offending journalist from the chamber.

“Is it true you’re dating someone, Your Majesty, and you rebuffed her advances?” asked the first reporter again.

“Two seconds ago you were asking if Constance had broken my heart,” d’Artagnan replied. “Pick a rumor and stick with it, please?” The man laughed and subsided.

The group of reporters, smaller than the crowd at Constance’s conference, kept flinging question after question at him. After a moment d’Artagnan raised his hands for silence. “The gist of what I’m hearing is, you all want to know if I believe Constance was telling the truth about her motivations. I’m not going to try and explain what she said; she did a beautiful job of that, and if you’d believe it more coming from me, then I have nothing to say to you anyway.” D’Artagnan could see Athos frowning from the back wall, and he reined in his annoyance. “My position is one of support for Queen Constance’s decision. That I agree with her reasoning is irrelevant; I would support her even if I worshipped at the altar of political marriage, which I don’t.”

“Aren’t you the result of a political marriage? Are you saying that was a mistake?” a dark-haired woman asked from the middle seats, interrupting him. D’Artagnan saw Athos start, and gestured for him to remain where he was.

“Not all such matches end in disaster,” he said to the reporter. “My parents were lucky, and so I was lucky. It could easily have been different, and I believe in reducing the risk of instability and abuse for future monarchs.”

Richelieu stepped forward. “I’m sorry, that’s all we have time for,” he said, wrapping a hand around d’Artagnan’s arm and pulling him away. “You were meant to issue a statement of support for Queen Constance, not preach on about marital abuse,” he hissed while dragging d’Artagnan behind him.

“Oh, leave off,” d’Artagnan said, wrenching his arm free. “Is that all for today?”

“Your father wants to see you,” came Athos’ voice from behind them. “This way, sire.” Athos stepped forward and d’Artagnan followed him, holding in his sigh of relief until Richelieu was out of earshot.

“Does he really want to see me?”

“Yes, but not until tomorrow.” Athos gave him a strained smile. “I thought the ambiguity might get you out of fighting with your top minister in the hallway.”

“Well thought out. Are you alright?” d’Artagnan added. “You look like you’ve just swallowed bad milk.”

“I’m perfectly alright, sire.”

“Please don’t lie to me, Athos. You keep all my secrets, I can keep one of yours.”

D’Artagnan put on his most winning smile, and Athos shook his head. “It’s just - I knew that last reporter. I never thought to see her again.”

A change of subject was in order, judging by Athos’ face. “Are there really rumors that I’m seeing someone?”

“Yes,” Athos said gratefully. “It’s reached the outside of the castle, if that one’s source doesn’t know who. Most of the castle staff are well aware of your time spent with Porthos by now, I expect.”

“Joyous.” D’Artagnan frowned. “That means I have one more uncomfortable conversation ahead of me.”

Dusk found d’Artagnan and Porthos curled up in their flat spot behind the garden. Porthos was tracing the shapes of constellations with one hand and telling their stories, but d’Artagnan’s stomach was twisting too much to listen as intently as he wanted. Finally, Porthos dropped his hand and took d’Artagnan’s. “What’s on your mind?”

D’Artagnan took a deep breath. “What happens if people find out about us?”

“People already know about us.” Porthos’ words were relaxed but his voice was tenser, his fingers frozen around d’Artagnan’s. “Aramis and Athos, and half the grounds staff keep winking when they see me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” D’Artagnan sat up. “I mean what happens if the press finds out? Or Richelieu? Or my father?” He laughed. “I mean, have you even thought about what happens when it isn’t just us anymore? Because I hadn’t.”

“Right.” Porthos remained lying down, letting go of d’Artagnan’s hand and tucking both of his under his head. “I hadn’t either. But I guess that would be bad.”

“It’s something worth thinking about.” D’Artagnan flexed his hand, cold without Porthos’ warmth. “We did just sort of fling ourselves into this without pausing for thought.”

Porthos sat up, then pushed himself to his feet. “Where are you going?” d’Artagnan asked, scrambling upright as well.

“Off to think about it.” Porthos kissed him, quick and abrupt. “Good night.” He turned, hands in his pockets, and made back towards the smithy. D’Artagnan watched him go, mouth open; then something clicked in his mind and he darted forward.

“So the thoughts I’ve been thinking about it are that we should consider jumping the gun,” he practically shouted, grabbing Porthos’ arm and using it to swing around in front of him. “Tell people before they find out.”

“Oh.” Porthos blinked. “I like that a lot better than what I thought you meant.”

“Yes. Sorry about that, I didn’t realize how it would sound.” D’Artagnan gave a tentative smile. He felt vaguely like he would catch fire when Porthos returned it. “So. I’m in love with you. In case that was in question.”

“I feel much the same,” Porthos said, still grinning.

There was a solid few seconds where d’Artagnan couldn’t speak for smiling. “Great. Excellent. How do you feel about meeting my father?”

“The good kind of terrified. How do you feel about meeting Flea?” Porthos countered.

“Much the same,” d’Artagnan quipped. Porthos kissed him then, and d’Artagnan threw his arms up around Porthos’ neck. “Alright,” he said when Porthos released him. “Good. Wonderful.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with [me](http://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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